


Sacred Spaces in Planned Days

by Allekha



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Pre-Canon, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 02:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15305949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allekha/pseuds/Allekha
Summary: Lilia falls in love with Yakov because of his skating, because of his thoughtfulness, and because of his hands.





	Sacred Spaces in Planned Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elstaplador](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/gifts).



Lilia likes ice skating. She hasn't gone herself in years – too busy, and she doesn't need the risk of someone running into her or falling – but she remembers zooming around frozen ponds as a child in winter with fondness. And the real skaters can be beautiful to watch, too, dancers on ice.

So when her friend invites her to watch part of a local competition, on a day when they have a rare few hours to themselves, she accepts.

She likes the ladies, in their delicate costumes sparkling with stones, or bold ones that are like strokes of color on the white ice, though too many of them haven't taken to their ballet seriously enough. Awkward I-spins from those who don't possess enough flexibility to bring their legs all the way up to their heads, bad extension on jump landings, and she doesn't even know what some of them are attempting to do with their arms.

The men make her smile, too. There's one who practically skips across the ice like he's playing the part of a prince on stage, and Lilia's friend coos over him. She wishes more of them would show off some flexibility, though. Lilia has seen what male dancers can do.

Then along comes a man, Yakov Feltsman, from whom she cannot tear her eyes. He projects confidence to the whole arena; he does that spin few of the men do, where he pulls his leg back up and over his head. He bends his knees and sinks into the ice, and his _hands_. They are not left to flap about – at every moment he knows precisely what he is doing with them, whether they should be a delicate curve or a strong fist.

It is the performance that Lilia remembers best.

Lilia and her friend linger outside for a while, chatting about the competition, a welcome break from the regiment of ballet life. One must always make time to enjoy other forms of art, Lilia knows, and already she thinks of trying to capture that perfect glide of skates on stage.

They stay there long enough that some of the competitors begin to emerge, and as soon as she sees Yakov Feltsman again, Lilia's attention is gone from her friend. Up close, Yakov is not especially handsome, but he's hardly ugly. Her friend shakes her head. "I don't know why he's your favorite," she says. "Go talk to him, I'll wait."

So Lilia goes to him. There is another man with him – his coach, she assumes – but he doesn't look busy. "Excuse me," she says.

The coach gets a little smile. "Looks like you have a fan," he says, clapping Yakov on his back and taking a few steps away.

Lilia wishes she had flowers to give him. But she doesn't, so she gives him words. She tells Yakov how she enjoyed his skating, how she enjoyed his hands. He seems a little taken aback to hear what she has to say, and then his eyes widen in the middle of her sentence. Ah. She's wrapped herself up in a scarf today – her growing fame does have some drawbacks – but it seems she's been recognized anyway. A man of the arts, this one. But he doesn't treat her any differently.

After a few minutes, the coach starts to glance at his watch. "Yasha," he says, his voice sharp. "We need to get going."

Lilia ignores him. Other people wait on her, unless it is actually necessary. The coach's wanting to go home right this minute is not necessary, and she is enjoying the conversation. She would enjoy more of the conversation. "However," she says, "there were a few areas where I noticed you could improve. You take ballet, of course?"

"Of course," he says, one side of his lips quirking up.

"Yasha," the coach says, louder. Lilia fixes him with a look, which makes him cough and shift his weight.

"I know a ballet instructor who works specially with athletes," she says. "She's very good at teaching flexibility. I would love to see you be able to show that off aspect even more – you stood out so well from the rest of the men. Would you like her information?"

Yakov looks at her for a moment, and then he nods, slowly.

She pulls a pen from her purse and writes her number down on a brochure about the competition that someone gave her. Yakov takes it; he's clever, he understands. "I look forward to seeing you skate again," Lilia says, and then she returns to her friend.

It takes him two weeks to call. Lilia hunts through her schedule for three hours she can spare for him. To examine his flexibility. Yes.

They spend the first hour at a café, talking, and she finds his personality as pleasing as his skating. He knows how to listen, but when she gets him fired up, the way he gestures broadly with his hands is amusing, and so is the way he flushes and apologizes for being too loud afterward despite her smiles. Opinionated and passionate, this one, and she likes passionate.

~!~

It is difficult to find time for both of them – they both travel, and spend long hours at practice every day. Still, they do their best. Lilia comes up with tickets to her shows for Yakov, and Yakov takes her pond skating when the water freezes (they hold hands, to help keep her from falling, and most people are content to skate around them).

Tonight, however, things have worked out for them – separate invitations to some useless function. After a few hours, when people are getting tired and drunk off the wine, the two of them slip away to a back staircase, the kind that nobody else would ever use unless they needed some privacy.

They can't be gone for forever; someone will notice, eventually. But they can have some time, and they take it. They kiss, standing on the cold concrete, kiss until Lilia has had enough and pulls Yakov with her as she leans into the hard wall. He takes the hint, runs his hands over the silk of her dress, over her hems, under her skirt.

Yakov is good with his hands in this way, too. He's learned that she doesn't want him to be delicate about pressing on her clit, how to tease her just right to drive her mad in the good way. His thumb rubs firm circles on her clit and drives spike after spike of pleasure into her, while his other fingers run along her but not _in_ her and eventually, she can't stand it anymore.

She grabs his hand and grinds into it. She doesn't have to say anything; he kisses her and slides two fingers into her, and yes, yes this is what she wanted. Her body clenches around them, hard, again and again, wanting more until he adds a third finger without her needing to ask.

And he's still touching her on the outside, too, his touch as firm as before, or perhaps even more so, giving her the stimulation she needs. Every bit of his attention seems to be on her, as he murmurs her name and kisses her skin above the necklace she wore tonight, and Lilia cannot think of anything else but him for long minutes. The way his touch follows every movement of her hips, his scent in her nose when she tips her head against him, his stiff shirt wrinkling under her hands as she clutches at his shoulders.

Her knees don't give out when she comes, but she does wobble, and Yakov helps hold her up, holds her through the brightness and while it fades until she feels back in herself again. He's a far better support than the wall, warm and soft.

Lilia smooths the wrinkles she's made in his clothes, and then she taps his chest and gently pushes him towards the wall for his turn. She enjoys the gasp he makes when she slips her hand into his trousers; she enjoys the way he says her name, the want in his eyes, and Yakov may not be the most handsome of all men, but the way his face shifts when she runs her hand down his cock is a sight to behold.

It's enough to have her shifting to straddle his thigh so she can have some pressure on her clit again. She's not going to get off another time – someone will be missing them, eventually, but oh, if they had time. Wonderful as his fingers are, maybe she should have had him inside her; the feel of his cock in her hand, thick and perfect, makes her muscles try to clamp on nothing.

She likes the groan he makes when he spills over, low and quiet in the empty staircase. She loves even more the adoring way he looks at her afterward, how he kisses her sweetly. He starts to try and put his hands on her again, but she shakes her head. Time. They can't stay here all night, much as she wishes she could steal him away.

But they do have time to stand together for a few minutes after they clean up with a handkerchief and get themselves looking presentable enough for anyone who might walk in on them. "You make me feel so lucky," he murmurs into her hair.

It's true that she could have chosen many other people. There has been no shortage of those trying to become her lover. Men who gaze at her worshipfully and fall over themselves to tell her how beautiful she is; women who bring her tea and hopeful looks and offer to sew the ribbons on her pointe shoes to be able to sit pressed up next to her. Lilia would never be able to count how many people have brought her flowers and cards and chocolates from Latvia, France, Switzerland.

Yakov brings her flowers for her performances. He also brings her magazines with their favorite skaters, and sneaks her into the rink on occasion to watch him practice. He tells her how beautiful she is, but also praises how hard she works. Both of them understand that beauty comes at a cost, exhaustion and sore feet and long, long hours.

"Only because you've earned it," she tells him, and leans up on her toes for a last kiss.

~!~

Lilia wakes to a cold bed, which is odd, because Yakov stayed over last night, the two of them taking advantage of mutual time off. She frowns at the rumpled covers beside her and sits up. There's soft sounds from the next room, and she rises and discovers that Yakov is making breakfast.

There is already hot tea waiting on the table. Lilia sits and wraps her hands around the cup.

Yakov is making pancakes. Lilia can't remember the last time she had the space or energy in the morning to make blini, and her eyes follow every motion as Yakov pours the batter into the hot pan and flips them over. While they cook, he chops fruit from the bowl on her counter. His hands are steady and quick with the knife, stronger than hers and just as confident.

He clears his throat when he sets a plate of pancakes and bowl full of fruit in front of her. He's used her nicer plates and bowls; Lilia doesn't believe in saving good china for holidays only. As long as she has the time to sit down and focus on her food, it's enough of an occasion.

The blini are perfect-looking, and the fruit in the bowl is so pretty, chopped fine and mixed, all different colors. Lilia helps herself to a bite of each. They taste as good as they look.

"Do you like it?" Yakov asks.

She looks at him, at the hands that have just made her a better breakfast than she's made herself in a month. There are bandages on them, a couple of small things covering the cuts from his skates. She's seen him cut himself before and keep on skating, doing his best to deal with the blood dripping down his hand without ruining his performance, as steady as any other dancer trying to cover for something going awry.

Lilia spoons some of the fruit onto her blini like it's jam and chews a bite of it, slowly. She considers waking up to this more often – maybe not the pancakes, not every day, but the quiet, comfortable company before a day full of work ahead. Coming home to someone else who is tired and who winces to walk on their feet some days, who understands the effort that goes into looking effortless.

"We should get married," she says.

Yakov lowers his utensils and gapes at her before remembering to close his mouth. His gaze sinks to the table, clearly thinking.

That's alright. It's a big decision; it can wait a few minutes. Yakov is not the kind to run from the idea of commitment, at least.

She sips her tea and waits, patient, for seconds that seem to tick on forever, until Yakov meets her eyes and beams at her. It's already an answer, but her heart beats harder anyway when he takes her hand and says, "It would be an absolute honor to be your husband, and to have you as my wife." And then he kisses the back of it, his eyes still on hers, shining.

The smile is on her lips before she realizes it. Lilia has always liked the glow of someone in love. Seeing it on Yakov brings that same floating feeling to her chest as when she watches a beautiful performance, or settles into a starting pose before dancing herself. It almost makes her think they should go down and register the marriage right this very minute, no ceremony required beforehand.

They should not, of course, and not because the thought of it makes Lilia, who likes her well-planned days, feel like a foolish young girl infatuated with the first person who kissed her. The breakfast would get cold, and it would be a shame when Yakov put the work into it.

She takes his hand in her own for a moment, before they return to their food, and whether or not they are married today or next year, Lilia knows with all certainty who it is whose support will make her shine a little brighter on the stage.


End file.
